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A csun 
Story of the Sands 



OTHER POEMS 

BY 

Dr. E. L. MACOMB BRISTOL 
■THE FLOWER POET" 



NEW YORK 

BRENTANO'S, PUBLISHERS 

5 Union Square 






A 

Story of the Sands 

AND 

OTHER POEMS 
- - / 

Dr. E, L. MACOMB BRISTOL 
"THE FLOWER POET" 



<:^y^9/ZJ' 



NEW YORK 

BRENTANO'S, PUBLISHERS 
5 Union Square 



^5 



M2 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the 

year 1888, by Brentano's, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress 

at Washington. 



Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York. 



f f^EFACE. 



Like seaweed floats upon the brine, 
The prismatic hues of the sun doth 

shine. 
Will this little volume float or sink ? 
Will you uphold it ? What do you 
think? 
Faithfully, 

THE AUTHOR. 
New York, February 15, 1888. 



INDEX OF CONTENTS. 



PART I. 

PAGES 

A vStory of the Sands 9-55 

PART II. 

miscellaneous poems. 

April 59 

If I Only Knew 60 

Estranged 61 

In the Gloaming 62, 63 

A Picture 64 

Thro' the Wheat 65, 66 

Slander 67 

If He Came Wooing 68, 69 

Four-Leafed Clover 70 

Looking Back 71 

Mon Amour 72, 73 

The Pretty Quakeress 74 

The Dying Leaves 75, 76 

The Old Church-yard 77, 78 

The Test 79, 80 



INDEX OF CONTENTS. 

PAGES 

Marguerite 8i 

1 Still Believe 82 

He and She 83 

Down by the River 84 

The French Lesson 85, 86 

You 87 

Dandelions 88 

Violets 89 

You and 1 90 

The Crows Fly Low 91 

The Old, Old Story 92-94 

What Does it Bring to Me ? . . 95 

Resurrected 96 

The Daisy and the Violet 97-99 

What ? 100 

Lines in an Album loi 

Only a Flower 102 

Clover Blossoms 103 

To-morrow 104 



f ART I 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

" Come unto these yellow sands." 

Shakespeare . 

PART I. 

Soft and still and white the gleaming 
sands 

Lay stretched far and wide on shore and 
sea — 

A level waste of drifted gleaming snow, 

Marked here and there with varied 
burnished hues 

And darker streaks of coloring en- 
gulfed by foam, 

Which had flung carelessly its creamy 
flakes 

Athwart the shore, so full of shells and 
pebbles rare — 

Beneficent in princely treasures, and 
gifts from the sea's 

Vast bed, as some cast-off necklace of 
an Undine 

Or Niobe, that dwelt in ceaseless splen- 
dor in Neptune's court, 

2 



lo A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

And who in some amorous delight had 

bared herself, 
And naked lay, to wait for Passion's 

kiss — a kiss so swift. 
So hot, so full of fire, that the dews of 

life are quenched, 
And as the lily in the noonday's sun, 

droops and dies. 

The ever-playing waves made music 

sad and sweet 
As the tide went out — the south wind 

lent its whisper, 
Like the voice of some loved one speaks 

of the dead ; 
Or as fancy takes you, say as the voice 

of some 
Sefiorita mingles with the castanets, 

or some old song 
Of love and home comes back, and 

visions come again 
Of a life now dead — of a memory only, 

a dream 
Of youth and hope. The scent of brine 

was in the air, 
And tangled brier roses on the banks 

shut not their eyes. 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. II 

But gaped open-mouthed sensually at 

the moon ; yet cold 
Chaste bodies do not wake with looks, 

but need a touch 
Ofttime repeated, and when slow to 

wake, alas ! 
They never sleep — but dream and 

brood till the 
Ice and snow are gone leaving the bar- 
ren earth. 
The roses gaped and lured the bees, 

who, benumbed 
And beguiled by blossoms rich in scent, 

slept and 
Waked not, but died in suffocation, in 

a lethargy 
That intoxicants bring, and in dying 

gladly went to rest. 
The east wind bringing shrouds in the 

falling rose 
Leaves that softly fluttered and covered 

intrigues 
Done in the moon's soft, chaste 

light. 
The golden sickle hung low, some hours 

high. 



12 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

And yet so calm and gracious in her 

serenity. 
A water fowl ran giddily 'long the 

sands 
And piped discordantly, fretful that a 

tryst 
Had not been kept, and yet timorously 

afraid 
Her mate might find her wooing in the 

shadowy 
Light, for no young fledglings slept 

then at home, and 
Woman like, when maternity has not 

been blest, 
Are fretful of life's duties, and seek de- 
lusions 
That never come — the wind and birds 

and roses 
Slept, and on the sands came the meas- 
ured tread 
Of human feet, slow, lingering loth 

and light weighted. 
The stars, oh ! those silent sentinels, 

smiled serene ; 
The wind awoke, and kissed the roses, 

who, jealously 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 1 3 

Affronted, waited the breath and touch 

of mortal lips 
To sleep again. In every rose's heart 

a maiden's Love 
Does lie ; methinks they give their life 

to them 
And then bleed to death on bosoms 

white as snow. 
Does love come to the flowers, and thro' 

them to us, 
You think? Perhaps 'tis true, when 

the thorn 
Is left, for to all things beautiful a sting 

is given. 
The roses die and leave a thorn so sharp 

and strong 
We wonder why the beauty of its heart 

is marred. 
For foolish mortals do not see that 

roses' thorns 
And a woman's tongue are but a simile. 

Ah, yes ! 
The Hps that blow like the soft young 

rose hide 
A thorn as sharp as steel. 
Two freighted hearts beat fast that 

night, two hearts 



14 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

To feel and know that all the world was 

naught. 
Ah ! Love, when com'st thou ? Why 

rob the peace of man ? 
And fill his being with expectant fears, 

that feed on 
Desire, longing, hope, and in prayer 

ask what not else ? 
And when 'tis done, like a guilty para- 
mour play 
Hide and seek, and lavish favors to 

every heart, 
That falls like the rose leaf when its 

death has come. 
And when 'tis done to hie away and 

laugh — 
We see the follies mortals do, and yet 

thy coming 
Is not known, not until the summons, 

not until the knock 
Do we know you — alas I we let you in, 

and lie awake 
Of nights, to let you out — Ah ! Love, 

if thou hast a conscience 
Then thou hast much to blame thyself. 

But conscience 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 15 

Comes to few in the game of life, and 

chance conscience 
Becomes dulled, and " life's fitful fever " 

thinks of it as a dream, 
lf\h.Q thought comes at all — the weaker 

fall and die, 
But the strong rise triumphantly ; the 

sparrow kills 
The fly, the hawk is master of the 

bird, and so 
With human strife — some lives are 

weak as insects, 
While others are as lions in jungles 

deep and wild. 
Will Conscience dwell in mortal hearts ? 

Perhaps. 
Will Conscience dwell in minds given 

up to gain 
And hoard? No! Will man forget 

his mother's love, 
The being who gave him life, and 

heed not her 
Prayers ? — for mothers always pray, and 

children are 
Like prayers, that come as incense, 

and steal away 



l6 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Our cares, and drug us with delusive 

hope and faith. 
Will man forget all this ? Aye, yea, he 

does forget — 
In the volumes forgotten, now unread, 

he never forgot 
But kept her as a memory, placed her 

on a pedestal. 
And worshiped as Mohammedans do 

their God. 
When Age with his knife does strike us 

down. 
And Worry lets her children loose, we 

would seek 
Patience, that blind sister, and plead 

and pray. 
The filial love born in the cradle should 

become 
A mountain in its vastness when life is 

almost done — 
But Love plays and keeps no tally of 

his shots ; 
He never looks to see if the shaft has 

struck 
The center-board — but contentedly 

knows, if not straight. 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. IJ 

The crooked line or stick can bend or 

break at will, 
And rests content when he hears the 

sigh, for that 
Comes when Love gives to us his po- 
tion, but he lets 
Us drink until delirium is master — not 

like a physician, 
Who counts the pulse and stays the 

heart, 
And watches faithfully the fevered skin 

— Love gives 
His potion, we drink and live, thro' 

passion's phase, 
And wake perhaps to life once more — 

or we drink 
And live in summer's bloom, and know 

no frosts or ice — 
And yet the winter follows summer, and 

the spring does 
Melt the snow — as repentant tears, 

when sorrow comes. 
Spring, as a half-clothed maiden, with 

naked bust 
And limbs, v/ho weeps with gentle 

April rains, and 



1 8 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Washes all her sins away, and sees the 

promise 
In May's daffodils, and rests content in 

the communion 
Of June's rich wine. 

The sands gave back the echo of 

coming feet, and souls 
Dwelt on the border land of duty — two 

souls, two hearts 
Commingling — Sympathy touched 

them, Pity gave her hand, 
And Love came swiftly, for 'twas his 

work, 
And lo ! A maiden, tho' a wife, keeps 

a tryst 
Upon the sands — and he, tho' wedded, 

plays 
A part, and tho' unsuspected, and 

neither knew 
That the other was bound by bonds in- 
dissoluble. 
Comedies are played, and no mischief 

brews from the drink ; 
Tragedies are swift as lightning strokes, 

and the draught is death. 
So Love laughs, and tallies one in the 

game of chance. 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 1 9 

'Twas thus they met, these two whose 

hearts 
Gave up their keeping, and opened 

doors of locked 
And bolted chambers — and Love came 

in so still 
And swift, — 'twas as a current of strong 

fresh air 
In some disused room, where discord- 
ant strife had been. 
Love came in and dwelt there, leaving 

sunshine and splendor, 
And writ words that never die. 
"Ask of me my honor, all I give to 

thee," he said ; 
"Take my life, my soul, but give me 

one respite, 
One quick kiss when, soul to soul and 

life to life, 
In the sweet communion of our lips a 

vow is told." 
And she had answer'd, " When Love 

had come and said, ' Must 
I away and leave thee free ? ' had said, 

^Nay! 
Fight not shy, but stay awhile as you 

w///do.'» 



20 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

I know not what my heart does mean, 

because 
It talks to me as it never did — but 

Love, I called 
Him so, Oh ! Love. Oh ! Love, stay ! 

Stay! Stay!—" 
They met when the shadow of the day 

lay upon the hills 
And spake to night in whispers, — the 

sun lay asleep, 
His couch in tinted gauze was veiled 

with rosy tints. 
Day waned but slow, while night, 

abashed, was loth 
To meet the amorous sun, that went to 

bed and forgot 
The sleep that twilight brought— and 

so staid av\^ake. 
With passion's longings, and tarried 

slow and slept not 
Till Luna bade the curtains down, and 

called her children. 
The many stars, and bade them watch 

the world asleep. 
Once she had said to some word of 

his : 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 21 

*' A man's voice is but wind 'pon sand ! 

— a thousand 
Words of his is but a breath of a pas- 
sion-flower in the sun. 
He distills them, as the vintage does 

the wine, but unlike 
It, he separates not the good, but gives 

freely to all to drink 
Haphazard as they will — to some as 

water, to others as life.'' 
And again when he had caught her 

hand. 
And as quickly dropped it, looking 

'cross the silent sea, 
That never tells its anguish or sorrows 

only in cries 
And songs, weird and sad, and in joy- 
ful moods 
But echoes its lamentations. 

Across the far wide sea he looked 

with troubled 
Sorrow in his eyes — a look she dared 

not meet or heed 
For pathos dwelt therein, and pleading 

cried aloud 
Of a soul on fire, a heart that knew no 

rest — 



22 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

And once when all the sky and sea and 
trees 

Were liquid gold — and the flowers had 
changed 

Their hues, and like burning topaz lay 
'pon emerald 

Plates, and rivers ran as streams of fire, 
while 

The birds told of a day born again, and 
the grasses 

Looked quickly up, for day was life, 
and the bees 

Had dressed themselves and were astir 
and awake — 

Night was done — ^olus came from 
'cross the sea 

*With sword of flame and cried, " Be- 
hold ! the Sun is King ! " 

And while the heather laughed in si- 
lence, the corn 

Shook its tassels, as a pretty maid does 
lift her foot 

In merry, airy dance to show her in- 
step to amorous swains 

Dizzy in the excess of youth, when 
blood runs hot, 



A STORY OF THE SANDS, 2$ 

And impulse carries virtue in his arms 

and steals 
The virgin kiss that mars or makes a 

life. 
The cowslips nodded to the marguerites 

so wan and white, 
And then to prayers bent low their yel- 
low heads. 
The lovers smiled ; to them all this was 

given and they saw 
With but half-awakened sense, ac- 
cepted blindly, as children do 
The sweets their parents give. No 

warning does the man 
See who eats and sleeps and reads of 

poverty — 
The thirsty traveler looks for streams — 

the sated man 
Sees not the kine, or herd or lowland 

flocks 
That feed upon the emerald hills in 

sweet content. 
The day was young, and they had 

watched the sun 
Come naked from his bath, while, half 

lifted, 



24 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Night held her draperies, then turned 

her head and was 
Seen no more. 
With tender pleading words my hero 

said so low 
And sweet, as ^olus pleads to kiss the 

mermaids with 
His gentle touch, and lift their tresses 

from off their 
Bosoms, that veil them like Aurora's 

harem in the east. 
Soft and low, to a heart untaught, as a 

lyre 
Wakes to a touch of a master's hand, 

and then lies mute 
Forever more — to a heart untutored, and 

then to know 
And blindly struggle, and lose itself in 

life's labyrinth 
Of tangled thorns — Oh ! Life, how 

mighty thou art ! 
And Oh ! Life, how frail at best !. 
To her the words came with a strong 

and blinding sense 
Of joy unknown — a prescience of 

heaven, a legend 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 2$ 

Of childhood — a fairy land of bliss — an 

illusion 
Of intoxication — a glad rush of all her 

noblest aims — 
Like some half- fraught stolen lines that 

touched the strings 
Of her inner life and laid bare the truth, 

her love for him. 
'Twas this he said — ''Valerie, dear 

heart ! if I were free 
(Dead, I mean)" — and he clasped her 

waist when he felt the tremble 
Of her hands, and saw her white, sweet 

face — 
" Valerie, oh, my love ! if I were free, 

would'st thou 
Pray with the Holy Spirit for a release 

to join me 
There ? Coidd^st thou love as I do, 

dear, dear, dear 
Heart — one kiss to answer, one kiss to 

tell me 

That " 

' Excuse me. 
Sir ! A message from your wife ! '' 

The boy came 
3 



26 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Quickly, and as quickly went — what 
were tragedies to him ? 

His wife ! she said, Oh, hear ! Oh, God ! 
The boy 

Had said it — and spoke it loud — who 
came for him ; and he ? 

He had turned with face like death, and 
touched her 

Hand with lips so dead and passionless, 
that the imprint left • 

Was as slime from some dead thing. 
Her hero gone, and she, Valerie, 

Waked to life ! Ah, life !— how differ- 
ent I Had she known, ah ! 

Yes, had she known 1 No excuse for 
him, and yet had she 

Told that she was a wife ? Ah ! per- 
turbed heart ! O guilty 

Breast ! what anguish now ? She sat as 
cold as stone. 

The guilty wishes of his heart as dam- 
aged jewels upon 

Her breast — in no way had she sinned 
in loving him. 

Her heart made cry — " Pity me, pity 
me ! " came as a song 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 2^ 

From the sea. Do the recording angels 
look down, and 

Plead a pardon for poor deluded mor- 
tals, who cry 

Aloud with bruised hearts and find no 
relief? No! 

No answer comes as we listen, but the 
message is delayed. 

We read it in the after-years, where we 
lose it in the 

Debris of to-day's and to-night's tur- 
moil. 

With sharp-drawn lips and gasping 
sobs, she cries aloud, 

" Oh ! God, cleanse me — look ye down 
justfully 

And dry my heart forever more ! " 

If the *'Amen" could have been re- 
corded then 1 

Sobbing, she fell on her knees with 
moan and cry 

As when a soul is lost in gloom and 
cannot find the way. 

A leaf has fluttered down, waves in the 
air, circled 

And fell upon her bust, above her 
hands so tightly clasped 



2S A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

In woe. A crimson leaf with veins of 

gold that, dying, hid 
Itself 'mid the wealth of her warm 

white breastp it lay 
And shone like a wound of blood ; a 

dying leaf ! 
In midsummer's glory, and yet it died. 

Was she to die ? 
Half starting up, as if the brand of Cain 

was on 
Her brow, she snatching it quickly, and 

holding fast, 
She fled away with frightened pace. 
Alas ! the dawn is but the day. and all 

days 
Must end in night ! the night brings 

sleep 
And sleep is'death — for all do not wake. 

Death 
Waves us back, and further we cannot 

go through 
Space to the infinite Christ, the im- 
maculate mystery of the world 
And ages, that puzzle men, and who 

fight its creeds, 
Its reason and its truth — who believe 

or blaspheme — who 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 29 

Adore, or accept not the waters of ever- 
lasting life. 
Atheist, infidel, slave, pauper, beggar, 

and thief — sinner 
Saint and Christian, shall we find it ? 

To the living, 
Dead and dying ? None come back. 

We al] shall go ! 
Go where ? Who can tell ? So we 

ponder and breathless wait 
For an answer that never comes. The 

wind goes by in mocking 
Scorn, or woos us by a breath as sweet 

as a syren's smile, 
And yet the end cometh ; but we know 

not, you or I, 
When we shall close our eyes, and sleep, 

and dream the dream 
That takes us to that green shore by 

the river called death. 



PART II. 
Three winter snows had fallen and 

gone since Valerie 
Had given troth and wed — Love had 

not been kind. 



30 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Is he ever so? To you and me, per- 
haps ? You smile. Ah ! 
'Twas but mine own. The secret heart 

tells not its woes. 
But lives with smiling face, and yet 

a grave is ne'er exposed. 
To Judge St. John she gave her hand 

and at God's 
Altar said Yea for life — an old and 

moneyed man 
With two wives dead. ' Until death do 

ye part ' — brought no 
Terrors to her young heart. She gave 

respect where 
All else should have been. He led his 

bride away, one most 
Fair and beautiful in satin sheen — her 

golden hair 
The sun had kissed, and flowers sought 

to die and rest 
In such a coronet. 'Round her throat 

he twined strands 
Of milky pearls, and bound her arms 

with flashing gems, 
While on her bosom, like wreath of 

snow, he placed a fortune, 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 3^ 

So rich was he. When the veil is 

raised, the mist 
That brings to man his wife, and he 

to pledge the vows 
Of holy writ by the first warm kiss, he 

found her lips 
Of icy frost, with no answering pulsa- 
tion there ; 
But his veins were clogged, and though 

his heart was warm, 
Youth's bravado was all but dead. So 

the years had come 
And gone and counted three— num- 
bered three in 
The quiet past. Why do flowers burst 

in a single night? 
Why do buds break and blow, and in 

their breath lurks death ? 
I cannot tell you why, nor why we live 
nor why we die. 
When on the sands they met, Valerie 
was cold. 
Indifferent, for Love had not taken time 

to see her heart 
Nor question aught. Yet on the gleam- 
ing sands he followed 



32 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Close and slew her there. 

Cecyl Cecil met his doom when first he 

saw Valerie 
Smile. Have you looked into a flower's 

heart and seen its beauty? 
Felt the touch and saw the smile of 

heaven in its face ? 
To him she came as a vision — his life 

was sheol, % 
She comes, as with lighted taper to 

show the way thro' darkness 
To elysian fields. He bowed down and 

worshiped beauty, 
Gave up his heart — his life, his love, 

his strength 
And purpose. Memory mocked him 

and he knew 
'Twere but dishonor to shut his eyes 

and claim a happiness 
Incomparable. And yet life is sweet and 

a crying voice 
Bade him live and live for one, and that 

one his wife. 
The day Cecyl Cecil gave his hand 
To Agnes Wareing, in m.arriage pomp 

and state, for they were wed 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. ZZ 

In vast cathedral aisle, with crush and 

fashion in their wake — 
She an only child, an heiress petted 

and cajoled by Fashion's 
Whims and caprice, and when illness 

came to one who had 
Never been strong, or robust, nature 

tired, and patience went, and 
Discontent came freely, with forgetful- 

ness, complaint had wed mo- 
notony, 
Care and attention, caress and kiss. 

were lost in the satiety that 
Ennui brings when born of unmated 

souls, who defy natural laws 
And expect to tight an adversary so 

powerful, that they awake 
In amazement as to his prowess and 

fall overwhelmed with 
Wounds incurable. Hymen hung with 

shackles golden is but a 
Freedom in a courtyard, and like a 

prisoner on patrol — 
Valerie Vashton, one of seven girls aL 

like buttercups in a 
Meadow brown — was sought to wed by 

Judge St. John 



34 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Of high repute and rich and princely. 
Homer Vashton died and left his flock 

of lambs 
Unattended, save by a devoted moth- 
er's love — with care 
And stinted income, and constant 

watchfulness as to how 
And when the winter's store would 

come. 
To and fro from the town Valerie went, 

and on her 
Way would meet the Judge, who twice 

had mourned 
For wives, but to some men, women 

are as horses, 
They would purchase and bid for 

mare's flesh 
And possess an animal of metal, no 

matter what the cost. An aged 

man 
Takes pride in a beautiful wife, and 

Love 
Is not chary, and is as infectious to 

hearts past 
Three score and ten, as to tender, 

bleeding ones that 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 35 

Thrill in rapture when the summons 

come, and gladly go. 
Judge St. John had neither kith or kin 

as people said, 
And would perhaps leave his wife his 

vast estate. 
He, under pretence of purchase, viewed 

'•Rose Farm," and came again, 
And when in the fading of the summer 

he chose 
The brightest rose, none made demur, 

and Valerie, glad to go, 
For all their sakes made assent, and 

the world said wisely ; 
Judged her as an envied one; for would 

not she be the richest lass 
In all the country wide ? A beggarly 

girl would as a princess 
Ride. She, Valerie, would be as of 

the blood royal. 
And in the village church she was led 

away a bride, 
A wife. Her sisters all in gowns of 

purest white 
Were as the virgins of the holy script, 

with their lamps 



S^ A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Lighted — beautiful, strangely so, and 

never forgotten. 
As some picture is viewed, and stands 

out in our memory 
Long, long in after years. So this was 

as a tablet 
Never perishable. In the dark days 

that came after 
When Love was master. Alas ! alas ! 

for the end ! 
One in the East and one in the West, 

they said their vows 
Both at the hour, and yet unknown they 

plighted troth 
And sold their lives, and hearts broke 

in the time to come. 
Oh ! Fate thy crudest stab was when 

you blinded 
Destiny and stayed her hand. Three 

winter snows 
In dell and dale, and the story of the 

sands came after. 
When the fruits were golden and Nature 

full to repleteness. 
And earth's carpet was topaz and emer- 
ald studded, 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 37 

Heaven touched the sea and land with 

its hidden 
Glories outlined. Love sang to the 

flowers, and the birds, 
And bees, and grass, and thistledown 

were weighted 
With Love's sweet gift, bliss ; and but- 
terflies hovered o'er 
The daffodils and marguerites, and 

rested on some wild bud 
Half afraid to blow — the air and sea and 

land and sky- 
Were full, full, full of love- 
Four moons had set, four days and 

nights 
Had died, and they too, whose hearts 

were lost in each 
Other's keeping, had not met. With 

every step and sound 
He listened, with every breath she 

strained her ears 
And eyes, and sighed and waked to 

life unendurable 
To rest one hour upon his breast and 

die ; to see 
Those eyes of pleading, yearning ten- 
derness, and to 



S^ A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Read a story in their depths of midnight 

splendor. 
The story old as the world, old as the 

ages, and yet 
How new to you and me ! 
He, Cecyl, held his heart with hard 

constraint, 
And cursed the thrall that bound him. 

To give up 
All now, was nothing to one hour's re- 
spite in 
Valerie's arms. Passion struggled for 

mastery, he panted 
In his sleep and dreamed, and woke to 

an anguish 
Terrible — like a pris'ner in far Siberia, 

with chains 
Of iron, and yet there was no escape. 

Would an happiness so near 
Always hover o'er a sinful union, sinful 

in the eyes of 
Man and the world, and alas ! the Al- 
mighty God's — 
And yet his love was pure. He felt he 

would give his 
Life for Valerie's smile. His mind con- 

ured schemes of freedom 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. Z9 

All too chimerical, all too fleeting, with- 
out foundation unless he 

Lent the hand of cunning or of crime or 
stealth of which he had 

No part. Alas ! the thought of the lines 
he had read in the 

Early days, and they had laughed when 
he had said, 

" See this, a poem 'pon * Love,' would'st 
thou hear and read? " 

And she smiled Yea as when the moon- 
light smiles upon a rose. 

And he began : 

Love. 

Drink ? And I passed the cup 

And happiness was mine, 
But the one who drank and tasted 

Was mad with love and wine. 

Drink ! And I quaffed the cup 
And lo ! the God of Eros said, 

'* 'Tis death to those who drink," 
And content and happiness had fled. 

Her laughter rang out as music, for 
then she was free 



40 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

And she made answer sweet, — " Here, 

Mr. Cecil, let us 
Read ' Temptation.' How short and 

sweet! and yet 
To those whom love is given methinks 

their life does end," 
And so he bade her read, and in a 

voice of silvery cadence 
Spake the words : 

Temptation. 

Come ! and a vision bright and fair 

Led me willingly with bandaged eyes, 
'til 
1 swooned in the ecstacy of pain 

And, Passion denominated Soul and 
Will- 
Pain and Sorrow led me back 

The two wan maids who come to all, 
Who never speak, but come and go 

And raise you where you fall. 

'' Tears, Mrs. St. John ! Why so ! " but 

for answer 
She looked out, out on the sea, and 

silence 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 41 

Came between them, the silence of the 

inevitable, 
The birth of death had come, and grew, 

and 
Vaguely, indistinct and intuitively she 

felt it and 
Knew it not. Again he said, '' You 

believe it not? " ■ 
And she quickly turned the leaves and 

read 
For answer : 

Intuition. 
Her smiles were as silvery 

As when the moon sails high, 
Her laughter sweet contagion 

And yet a hidden lie. 
Her eyes so full of splendor, 

Dark as Egypt's night. 
And yet behind their glamour 

A vision holds a light. 

A vision — 'twas Intuition 
The monitor of the heart, 

And yet methought suspicion 
Was loyal to her part. 
4 



42 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

Cunning lent her fingers, 
Wisdom gave his power, 

And yet Intuition's subtle voice 
Was pleading by the hour. 

He snatched the book quickly, and they 
laughed as children do 

In the sun. "You changed the pro- 
noun," he said. 

And smiled. " And so 'twas meant for 
me, Valerie." 

He let her name drop unawares, as some 
rich note 

Does strike us, and lingers sweetly in 
the air. She in 

Mute surprise had looked but once, 
for he unconsciously 

Turned the leaves and read again, with 
all lines of his 

Noble face deeply set : 

The Awakening. 

A flower waked when the sun had set. 
And wonder'd, if the world was all 

so dark. 
And her heart was sad and her lips 

were wet — 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 43 

Wet with the kisses of the sleeping 
lark. 
The flower slept, the sun was high — 
High in the heavens in his daily 
round, 
But some are born who never laugh 
but sigh, 
And never know the world's mad 
sound. 
Awake ! Awake ! 'Twas Love's com- 
mand. 
The flower smiled and all was light, * 
And he pointed with his wand and hand 
To beauties of the woodland night — 
Awake ! awake ! but the flower sleeps. 

Love had killed her, in his play; 
Better she lived if e'en she weeps, 
Nay ! better her death if Love's away. 

Again he paused and said: ".'Twas 

better 
To have died, as the flower did, than 

to have lived 
Forever without a heart's sweet love." 

And then 
He read again, while she watched his 

face, 



. 44 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

And saw the manly beauty there, and 

her heart 
Stirred as does the pulse of a damask 

rose 
When its life unfolds to the sun's warm 

kiss. 
"Listen," he said; " I feel depressed, 

and melancholy 
Seems to seek me as her child," and 

she could 
Have thrown her arms about him then 

and there, 
And chased away that struggling smile 

that seemed 
The birth of wild despair. "See, I 

choose one 
That the author calls 'Remorse,' 'tis 

true, 
Let's hear it," and his laugh was but 

an echo of the lines. 

Remorse. 

Pain kissed Sorrow, and Grief was 
born — 

Born in tears of despair and woe, 
So like children with a mark of shame, 

An heritage, their parents sow. 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 45 

Grief in agony lived alone 

Until to grim Despair she wed 

And an offspring, " Remorse," was born 
Without a place to lay his head. 

Scarce had he stopped when the wind 

began its moan, 
And the sea was flecked by white and 

crested caps. 
Seaward went his gaze, and he idly 

turned the leaves 
Of the book he held — and without a 

word began : 

Death. 
Thro' space a shadow went 

Hurrying thro' the air, 
Death 'twas said by one, 

Another, an answer to a prayer. 
Souls make no shadows 

In their heavenward flight; 
The morning has its sorrow 

In the death of Night. 
Thro' space a shadow came 

And lingered in the air, 
A semblance from another world, 

A thing half clothed and bare. 



46 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

It stopped by one who rested 

And smiled when she saw it there 

For hunger, want, and poverty- 
Were her sisters in this world of 
care. 

*' Pray ! pray stop. Why such a doleful 

strain, my dear friend ? " 
" Why ? " He raised his head, and o'er 

his face a troubled question 
Lay. ' ' Valerie, is the world bright to 

you ? Does no longing 
Fill your heart ? Is life complete ? Oh ! 

pardon me, pray do. 
I intrude, where I cannot go — Mrs. St. 

John ! The days are 
Full of sunshine. Will you pardon me, 

if I go now ? At the hotel 
I have left my — my friend who waits 

me, there. Adieu ! " 
She called him back, but if he heard, 

he paid no heed, nor tarried, 
But strode away in haste as if she had 

offended him. 
Valerie Vashton was numb with fear 

and into her heart 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 47 

Crept guilty fears, and desires all new 

and strange. 
He had left the book, and she turned 

the leaves, and marked 
In pencil, here and there, were poems 

beautiful. 
And lines all telling of a love. With 

burning cheeks 
She spied her name — and held her 

breath and 
Read: 

Kiss me once, my darling 

Kiss me full upon my mouth ; 
The honey dews which fall from them 

Will be as perfume from the South, 
Let me place my hand within thy breast 

Let me put my lips upon thy heart, 
And count the beatings of thy life, 

Give me ! give but a part — 
Kiss me 

The volume fell upon the sand, and 

the blood surged 
To her face and neck, and slowly she 

wandered home 



48 ^ STORY OF THE SANDS. 

To dress for Judge St. John. She 

chose a gown of purest white, 
With sprays of jasmine in her skirts, 

and round her 
Neck she clasped her pearls, and in her 

eyes came the light 
Of fever, and in her cheeks a carmine, 

as rich as India's coral. 
And so the days came and went in 

** Love's Young Dream." 
Four moons had set, and these two 

had not met. 
Each had learned the other's history 

now, and Duty struggled 
To keep apart two hearts that would 

give up all to lie awake 
Or sleep together. 
The sea was flecked with silver bars 

and night 
Had come. A summer's night ! Was 

the god of Eros born 
In such a time ? Methinks so : he 

comes nude and naked 
Without vesture ; the south wind and 

zephyrs are about 
And around him. Do we know him, 

you and I ? 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 49 

** At last, Valerie ! " 'Twas a voice so 

full of love, it fell 
On the air and vibrated in its intensity 

— a voice that 
Thrilled her heart and made her dumb; 

one swift rush 
Of blood to face and neck, and thro' 

her veins 
Her life's current stopped, and left her 

cold and ice-like. 
She staggered and caught the friendly 

boughs that 
Hung as a canopy overhead — but for a 

moment only; 
Then with a low, glad cry, like bird to 

bird, whose 
Loving mate cries mournfully, and 

hears in the woodland 
An answering note, flies with winged 

speed at once and gladly 
Calls her mate. Hot, passionate kisses 

poured like rain 
Upon her upturned face, that lay upon 

his breast as the 
Dead might lie, so still and weak was 

she. Her brow 



50 ^ STORY OF THE SANDS. 

And neck were smother'd o'er, and eye- 
lids smoothed down 
By bearded lips that held the breath of 

pomegranates, his 
Favorite scent, and cheeks held close 

to those ot bronze 
Which the sun had kissed the summer 

long in bath and play — 
" No word from you, Valerie — love ! 

Life ! Idol of my soul ! " 
Her bosom rose and fell, and for one 

supreme moment 
He gazed and saw her beauties, like 

foamy crests, make 
Effort her heart refused to do — and 

then at last 
A whisper falls from out her perfumed 

lips, a word 
Only, and yet the man nearly drops his 

burden and 
Clasps her close and lays his lips upon 

her naked bust. 
"Sweetheart!" he cries, "say again 

that magic word." 
And again the silence breaks by one 

sweet word — hark ! 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 5^ 

" Darling ! " — and Valerie shakes as an 
aspen shakes, and 

Her fingers seek his neck, and linger 
there. 

She gave up all for one supreme mo- 
ment of love's delight, 

Forgot the world and all therein, for- 
got her vows and 

Husband old, and lay numb and palsied 
in his arms. 

For Love was king ! and he, Cecyl 
lived for ^^alerie. 

His wife was naught, no tie held them, 
love was master, 

Love was king. Supreme the hour, su- 
preme the night ! 

The stars smiled in the vast dome of 
blue 

Eternal in its depths— the unfathom- 
able, far-stretching space. 

The moon veiled her face by hurrying, 
fleeting clouds, 

The bird-note and wind hung still, 
while the flowers 

Slept unwaked by love's wooing and 
voices from out the sea. 



52 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

*' Oh ! Love," she sighed, ''my Hfe 

has come," 
And he did greet her speech with kisses 

swift 
And sweet, and stopped her breath with 

impassioned words, 
Made bold by warm embrace ; and thus 

they spent their strength. 
The soHtude was broken by sighs and 

laughter, as a 
Ripple breaks, and washes to the shore. 
"My love, dear heart!" he said, and 

fingers wandered idly 
O'er nature's bust so full, so rich in its 

lily bloom. 
Bosom to bosom, and breath to breath 

they lived, and 
The magic current of his being passed 

to her, and 
Heart to heart and soul to soul they 

knew no wrong, but what 
Love had done. Passion's poison 

marred her soul, 
And life to her was just begun. 
Ah ! when a flower breaks, and hum- 
ming birds hover 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. S3 

O'er its sweets to quaff, the flower 

gives and dies not. 
Alas ! for human hearts who know 

love's sting but to 
Die, and waste as does the grass in 

torrid zones. 
"Happy, dear?" and for answer an- 
other warm embrace. 
"Did'st hear the sound of waters?" 

"'Tisbut the tide." 
She said. '' See ! the north star hangs 

afar, and Luna sleeps, 
And night is almost gone." 
*' My love! Myall! My wife ! " he 

said, ** 'tis more than tide 
Of sea. We are lost ! the reservoir 

does burst ! " 

Days brought no tidings, no breath of 

slander 
Touched their names, for they were 

dead — Cecyl and Valerie ! 
The reservoir on Graystone Hill had 

sprung a leak. 
And, with help of tide, swept out to sea 

the wedded hearts 



54 A STORY OF THE SANDS. 

That marriage could not give. None 

save Him who 
Sees all things, knew aught of the tryst 

upon the sands — 
One hour of life and they had died. 

Heart to heart 
In life, breast to breast in death. 

Guilty ? Aye, 
To man's creed and God's. At the 

bar of the great, white 
Throne, were they judged severely? 

Let the sinner tell. 
Will the saints forgive ? 

The years had numbered ten since 
then, and 

Many slept, and many oped their eyes 
to light and sun. 

With day's breath and night's sleep, 
many come and many go. 

Agnes Wareing Cecil, sleeps her long 
last sleep, but Judge 

St. John still lives and mourns his 
loved Valerie. 

In among the pines he placed his trib- 
ute, and thus 



A STORY OF THE SANDS. 55 

We read: Valerie, aged twenty-two; 

and 'neath 
The base, on a marble broken pile, is 

raised the 
Letters, " Blessed are the pure in heart, 

for they shall see God." 
So does comedy and tragedy play in 

our lives. 
'Tis true, the world's a stage, and we 

but actors. 
So life's history runs, and to the end 

we all 
Shall turn and read the word, 

FINIS. 



i/lRT II 



APRIL. 

Tap ! tap ! comes the patter of rain, 
April, with her tears and laughter 
sweet. 
The violets peeped out, and felt the 
touch 
Of her lips, and saw her rain-washed 
feet. 
April smiled, and bade them come — 
Come out in the world once more; 
They stood by the roadside shy and 
sweet, 
Their hoods of purple tied before. 



IF I ONLY KNEW. 

He kissed me softly. 

Said it was true, 
That he loved me — only me. 
My eyes grew moist and dim, 
My pulses swiftly beat, 

If I only knew — only knew ! 

I heard his heart beat with mine, 
I saw his eyes look fondly down, 

A telltale in their depths of blue. 
He whispered, Have you heard me, 

love? 
And waited — one, two, three, four ! 

And then / kiss'd him too ! 



60 



ESTRANGED. 

We met and parted by the stile, 

Down in the meadows with grasses 

brown, 
I watched her go to the hamlet town, 

That lay 'mid the hills a backward 
mile. 

We met and parted by the stile, 
At first a kiss of the warm sunlight, 
And a clasp of hands like lilies white, 

While love was caught by her smile. 

We parted when the grass lay wet and 
brown, 
Down by the river, down by the stile. 
In answering word or a fleeting smile, 

Her fair hands hid in her pretty gown. 

The sound of bells came o'er the hills. 
Came like an echo from out the past. 
Oh ! if the sound would only last 

With the faint, far-away hum of the 
mills. 

6i 



IN THE GLOAMING. 

In the hush of the eventide, 
In the gloaming of the day, 

The pale stars break ; 
In space beyond the reach of men, 
And swift along the line of sky 

A multitude awake. 

In the hush of the eventide, 
In the gloaming of my life, 

I speak with God. 
The winds are still, the blossoms breathe 
Incense to the sleeping, dreaming 
world, 

A path untrod. 

When in the hush of the eventide 
Day and night kiss in mute farewell, 

I sit apart. 
And bow my head in reverent awe, 
To see the nightly celestial universe 

Unfold its heart. 

62 



IN THE GLOAMING. 63 

In the eventide I sit and dream, 
In the gloaming of the day, 

And the future lies 
Within myself. I see the end and know 
The way to Him. So sweet to see 

With open eyes. 



A PICTURE. 

A PICTURE on my easel, 

A face that is regal and fair; 
In all the world not a picture 

With the selfsame style and air. 
1 love my face on the easel, 

The original I cannot obtain, 
So I make court to my picture, 

And smother my heartfelt pain. 
64 



THRO' THE WHEAT. 

The poppies are red in the fields of 

wheat, 
The sun shines yellow on the marguer- 
ite, 
With its wreath of snow. 
Will she come down by the river's brink, 
Will she ponder, perhaps, to think ? 
Dp you know.'* 

The poppies are blowi g in the fields of 

wheat, 
Red as the roses and in beauty replete, 

Mimic suns of flame. 
Will she come by the meadow, thro' 

the grass, 
Or thro' the lane where kine shall pass, 
This rustic dame ? 

The poppies are red in the fields of 

wheat. 
She is coming, she comes, how sweet, 
how sweet. 
Oh ! happy day ! 

65 



66 THRO' THE WHEAT, 

She stops, and falters, and a flower 

steals 
And hides in her belt the scarlet 

wheels 
That the mischief play. 

The fields of wheat are red in the sun 
That dies in a flood of amber and dun 

In its yellow tide. 
Two go back by the river's sandy 

strand. 
Two are laughing, and hand in hand, 

Go side by side. 



SLANDER. 

Just a breath on the morning air, 

A whisper to the flower blooming there. 

The breath and whisper became a word, 
And at noon all the woodland heard. 

At night the flower lay a wither'd thing, 
The wind was swift in its deadly sting. 

67 



IF HE CAME WOOING. 

If he came wooing in the soft May-time, 

Would ye have him, bonny lass? 
With scythe and whetstone all ashine, 
Like a flash of lightning in the grass; 
If he came wooing, 
Would ye take him, lass ? 

If he came wooing in June's rich time, 

Would ye have him, bonny lass ? 
With the vesper bells a-ringing chime, 
Beyond the hills and meadow grass — 
If he came wooing. 
Would ye take him, lass ? 

If he came wooing in the corn's rich 
time, 
Would ye marry him, bonny lass, 
With sickle in hand and song in rhyme. 
And cocks of hay of rich brown grass ? 
If he came wooing. 
Would ye take him, lass ? 

68 



IF HE CAME WOOING. 69 

If he came wooing in the corn's rich 
time, 
I would take my bonny lad, 
With vesper bells in a merry chime, 
And my heart so full and glad. 
If he came wooing 
A happy, bonny lass. 



FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER. 

M-A-T mat, r-i matri, m-o-n-y, 

Matrimony, 
Said a maiden, counting clover 
Thro' the meadows, dell, and grass, 

And lea. 
Once, twice, thrice and over, 
A four-leaf! Pshaw! Til never marry I 

Another ! only three ! 
Dear me ! thought I had it ! 

Disappointed be. 

The sun went down behind the hills, 

Hopeless little maiden, 
Shy and sweet with sorrow's grief, 

Pretty eyes tear-laden. 
Without a clover four-leaf ! 
*'Dear heart!" he cried, ''I found it 
first. 

One, and one only. 
With it, darling, I'll come, too. 

For I am very lonely." 
70 



LOOKING BACK. 

We met on the stairs of the grand 
Salon, 
Ah ! that night, that night ! — 
'Mid music and whirl and crush of the 
ball, 
And tropical perfumes and light. 
Just a pressure of a soft, white hand, 
While dark eyes smiled with mad de- 
sire, 
And I was left alone with bursting heart, 
With brain and soul on fire. 

Once in the dance, I held her flowers, 

The sweet, sweet mignonette. 
The night waned slow. I hid them 
away, 
Alas ! I have them yet. 
Oh ! that night ! It will never come 
back. 
Why was I made of clay ? 
Why did I not break the game of 
chance. 
And make a to-morrow of to-day ? 
71 



MON AMOUR. 

My love is a white, white rose, 

Wrapped in sweet attire, 
Withal a grace of heaven's own, 

Her love a burning fire. 
My love is of high degree, 

A lass of the manor born, 
Her skin as soft as soft could be, 

And white as the fleece that's shorn. 

Her voice, like birds at eve. 

Cooing their young to sleep. 
Her breath is like the vi'let buds 

That dwell 'mid the Alpine steep; 
My love is a white, pale rose. 

That bends in the summer's air, 
While all around her court is held, 

A maiden royally fair. 

I would sing to my love an old love 
song, 
Filled with pathos and joy, 
72 



MON AMOUR. 1Z 

While she would answer in sweeter 
strain 
That our love was without alloy. 
The winds would be an accompaniment, 

The stars our watch on high, 
Beating hearts would keep the time, 
The moments in ecstasy fly. 
6 



THE PRETTY QUAKERESS. 

Gray and somber were the skies, 
Grayest of gray were her eyes, 
Quaintly gray was the dress 
Of the pretty Quakeress. 

Her hands were as the snow, 
Her breath as if the blow 
Of winds soft and sweetly flown, 
Had made a rose their home. 

Her voice was like a bird 
In a copse or woodland heard. 
Tender with the notes of love, 
Softly spoken as a dove. 

This was said in deep distress. 

To the pretty Quakeress : 

" Would'st thou, would'st, would's 

thou, 
Tallest me, tellest me how 

" To woo, wed, and love thee. 
Wilt thou love and marry me. 
Teach me the thy, thee, and thou ? " 
She answer'd, "Thou knowest how." 

74 



THE DYING LEAVES. 

A LEAF all gold fell down 
'Mid the russet and the brown, 
And lay quivering, trembling, 
A poor unheeded thing, 
Like a life that passeth away. 
Forgotten in a day. 
Oh ! what is the use to sigh ? 
We all are destined to die. 

A leaf all crimson red 

Fluttered to earth : 'twas dead. 

It fell 'mong the marble stones, 

So gray and white, which covered 

bones 
Of ancestors dead ! like a reflected 

light 
It lay, red as blood, 'gainst the white. 
Naught but the wind had heard its 

moan, 
Naught had cared ; it died alone. 

The rustling leaves are falling, 
As if the dead were calling : 

75 



76 THE DYING LEAVES. 

" Reflect and pause and think, 

Of the dread, uncertain brink." 

If like them we leave behind 

Some good done to some sorrowing 

mind, 
A ray of light like theirs is blessed 
In the glorious peace and heavenly rest. 



THE OLD CHURCH-YARD. 

*' Old as the hills," the people said, 
The final rest of the village dead, 
The old church-yard at the foot of the 

hill, 
Weird and solemn and awfully still. 
Whip-poorwills sing in the silent shade, 
The wild flowers blossom and slowly 

fade, 
The day dies sadly o'er meadow and 

dell, 
While the old church tolls its vesper 

bell. 

The tombstones gleam with spectral 

light. 
That for ages have stood in passing 

sight, 
Old and worn and moss grown green, 
And the ivy trails o'er a shielding 

screen. 
The winds sigh mournfully thro' the 

trees, 
And the foliage falls in flowery leaves, 



7^ THE OLD CHURCH-YARD. 

Purple and brown and yellow and red, J 
Trembling, fluttering o'er the dead. 

1707, says the corner-stone, 
A creeper climbs with its scarlet cone, 
The elms, gnarled and stately and tall, 
Throw their shadows o'er the crum- 
bling wall. 
Dim are the aisles of St. Bernard, 
Seen from the windows, the old church- 
yard; 
In it the generations sleep their long, 

last sleep. 
While the aged bend in prayer and 
weep. 



THE TEST. 

The violets pale 'mid the waving grass, 

The summer blossoms sweet and gay, 
The winds were soft to the rustic lass, 

As they blew o'er her cheek that day. 
Bright warm eyes, sweet eyes of blue, 

Her pale face pensive, sad and sweet, 
She picked the blossom of color true. 

While the winds their music did 
repeat. 

" This violet pale of heavenly hue, 
Must surely tell the truth to me. 
If my absent lover is constant, true. 

And will he faithful be ? " 
She plucked the leaves and named 
them all. 
The east, the west, the north, and 
south. 
She held her hand and the wind would 
call 
The brave and true or false and fickle 
out. 

79 



8o THE TEST. 

They stirred, and the maiden held her 
heart, 
The east went gracefully in the air. 
And the west goes, too, and formed the 
part 
Of the brave and true, to this maiden 
fair. 

Singing softly 'long the wooded pass. 
And murmuring sweetly what she 
knew, 
He caught the hands of this rustic lass, 
And whisper d, fondly, "I love but 
you ! " 



MARGUERITE. 

In a meadow bare and brown, 
A flower lay with a topaz crown, 
With soft and creamy leaves of white, 
A gleaming marguerite, pure and 
bright. 

I have likened you to this flower fair, 
This lovely queen of Autumn rare. 
Pure and holy your life will be, 
A perfect peace in eternity. 

Innocence is the other name 

Of this blossom sweet, with heart of 

flame. 
Thy memory will pro e forever sweet. 
Pure and fair, pale Marguerite. 

8i 



I STILL BELIEVE. 

No need of sun or stars to shine, 

I still believe. 
No need of moon to path, entwine 
Of silver flecks on emerald hues, 

I still believe. 

No need of wind to kiss the dew, 

I still believe. 
No need of flowers of snowy hue. 
To give me fragrance, and let me know, 

I still believe. 

Thou alone shall make me glad, 

I still believe. 
Thou alone shall make me gay or sad. 
And fill my heart with what it asks, 

I still beheve. 

82 



HE AND SHE. 
In the meadow stream the cows stand, 

Drinking, 
In the grass and meadow land, 

Thinking, 
He and she stand hand in hand. 

The cows are wandering far away; 

Tinkling 
Bells sound like a vesper day. 
Stars peep out from the misty gray. 

He and she, where are they? 

Thinking 
Still of the duty and part to play? 

Drinking 
Love's bitterness, and the penalty pay ! 

83 



DOWN BY THE RIVER. 

Down by the river, at the close of the 

day, 

Down by the river, down by the river. 

"I ponder, and wonder if this is the 

way." 

Down by the river, down by the river. 

Down by the river in the moon's pale 

light, 

Down by the river, down by the river, 

'*I wonder if it's wrong, I wonder if it's 

right," 

Down by the river, down by the river. 

Down by the river, down by the stile, 
Down by the river, down by the river, 

" Why did I tell him, after a while ? " 
Down by the river, down by the river. 

In the old stone church, at the foot of 

the hill, 

Down by the river, down by the river, 

I answered '' Yea," and I answer'd, "I 

will," 

Down by the river, down by the river. 

84 



THE FRENCH LESSON. 

The low laughing brook. 
With its bend and crook, 

Sang in merry tune ; 
And the day was bright, 
And the clouds were white, 

That summer's day in June. 
A maiden sat alone. 
By the silver stream, and prone 

At her feet lay her dog. 
She pondered her Francais 
La chien est moi Joi : 

Hark ! Answers come from the bog ; 



" Toujours, toyjours,^^ said a frog, 
Within the marshy bog. 

The maiden sweetly sighed, 
While a bird replied, 
Quite near her side, 

In tones of joyous pride : 
" Petite, petite" said the wren. 
She turned and looked, and then 

85 



86 THE FRENCH LESSON, 

The bird had flown. 
" Vien ici mon a'mour, 
Oest na pas un detour i"*"^ 

A voice in loving tone 
Replied, " The bird has its mate, 
My bonny, regal Kate, 

Teach me the lesson of love, 
In French or English care not I. 
Oh ! Ma Belle Kate, you sigh ''— 

Registered was the kiss above. 
The summer day ended, 
Gray shadows blended, 

Sweetest of days in June, 
The secret of love has been said, 
The lesson in Francais read, 

J^aime, J^aime, in the tune. 



YOU. 

If I were a flower I would bloom for 
you, 

For you, for you. 
A forget-me-not, with eye of blue, 

For you, for you. 
If I were the wind, I would come at eve, 

To you, to you. 
I would sigh and kiss and laugh or 
grieve. 

For you, for you. 

If I were a brook, I would ripple on, 

And sing to you. 
My heart and soul would be my song. 

And tell it you. 
If — , but I cannot tell all I'd do. 

For you, for you. 
But this I know I regret and rue. 

My meeting you. 

87 



DANDELIONS. 

I LOVE the flower with the name 

Dandelion. 
Round quaint faces, suns of flame, 
That with age do veil their face, 
Covering head and bust with lace," 
Mignon. 
In the meadow grass two lovers stand, 

Hearts a-flutter. 
Holding dandelions in her hand, 
^ " Let me paint your chin," she said. 
He answered, " If yellow, we shall 
wed." 

" No ! no ! you love butter ! " 



VIOLETS. 

Shy and sweet and full of grace, 
Dainty, winsome, pretty face, 

Is a violet. 
Pleading, dreaming, yearning eyes, 
A breath of heaven hidden lies. 

In their eyes of jet. 



YOU AND I. 

By the millstream, near the mill, 

In that summer long ago, 
In the shadows of the hill, 

Where the golden-rod did grow. 

In that summer past and dead, 
I loved you and you loved me, 

How we watched the millwheel red ! 
How we pondered what was to be ! 

Oh ! that summer, oh ! that day ! 

Where are you, and what am I ? 
The millwheel silent in decay, 

And the millstream ebbing dry. 

In my dreaming, you and I 
Go wandering by the stream ; 

Shadows linger; heaven is nigh ; 
And millwheels turning in my dream. 



THE CROWS FLY LOW. 

The heather is wet and the crows fly- 
low, 
Heigh-ho, heart! heigh-ho ! 
Stand still, bonny Bess! stand still, 
so, so. 
Ah me ! ah me ! heigh-ho ! 

The twilight is stealing o'er moor and 
fen, 
Oh dear me ! oh dear me I 
The cattle stand idle, and sheep in the 
pen, 
Oh dear me ! oh dear me ! 

The skies are blue with a rift of white, 
Oh ! my heart ! oh ! my heart ! 

Hark ! the dogs are barking with mad 
delight. 
Be still, my heart, my heart ! 

He is coming in the shadowy light, 

What says the sound of the kettle ? 
Does it whisper, and kiss, and say 
"good-night,'* 
The singing, cooing kettle? 

91 



THE OLD, OLD STORY. 

Why do you write of the olden story, 

One so young and one so fair? 
Has thy young heart seen aught of 
glory, 
That love has brought? and the end 
despair ? 
Did'st thou not know that no eyes were 
true? 
That all were faithless, even the gray. 
And brown and black, the hazel and 
blue, 
Were never constant and will wander 
away. 

Let me tell you a story of a flower fair, 

That grew in the woodland quite 
alone, 
A lily, tall and fragrant and rare, 

A tropical beauty in a frigid zone. 
'Neath its stalk and under the leaves, 

A vine grew up in slender tendrils 
fine. 
And between the vine and lily breath. 

The story so olden and yet divine. 



THE OLD, OLD STORY. 93 

At first they were shy, and looked 
askance, 
And the lily was pale in her haughty 
pride, 
While the vine was firm as knight with 
lance 
Who cared for women only to deride. 
They struggled with fate as many do, 

Only to enhance with brighter smile. 
And at last with twining arms they 
kissed, these two, 
And saw not, pondered not all the 
while. 

The lily, so grand and regally tall, 
Gave up her heart, gave up her 
life, 
And in the end this was not all, 
A vow was given to be a wife. 
Time went on, the vine rapidly out- 
grew 
The stately lily, who had begun to 
fade, 
Forgotten was she, and only the dew 
Was distilled from the eyes that God 
had made. 



94 THE OLD, OLD STORY. 

Brave, generous vine had begun to 
stray, 
And a pretty cobea was reached at 
last, 
While in a fortnight he was far away, 
His love was done; 'twas dead and 
past. 
The lily was queenly in her power, 
Dismayed at the course of the errant 
vine, 
Threw smiles to Timothy, in an hour 
And they were wed. Is this love 
divine ? 

MORAL. 

If two hearts stray, and one is true, 
Look for brown eyes and not for blue ; 
If brown eyes falter and betray. 
Seek consolation in those of gray. 



WHAT DOES IT BRING TO ME? 

White wings of the morn unfolding, 
The sun comes out from the sea, 
But what does it bring to me ? 

The sun is high, the stars are hid, 
The waves embrace and kiss in glee. 
But what does it bring to me ? 

The sun dyes red the western sky, 
^olus sings from his couch in ecstasy, 
But what does it bring to me ? 

Night trails her garments o'er the world, 
I sit and dream, my love is free. 
Death does bring it nearer me. 

95 



RESURRECTED. 

Reverently I look and touch the 
leaves, 
Touch the shroud of my dead red 
rose: 
And mem'ry takes me back 'mid the 
sheaves 
Of wheat, to that summer long ago. 

The reapers paused and sate them 
down, 
While she picked the rose and gave 
it me; 
Oh ! that summer's day with its drift of 
clouds. 
In the far-off space of the sapphire 
sea. 

My dead, dead rose, with a perfume 
sweet, 
Alive in that summer, alas ! dead to- 
day, 
But a mem'ry left of that dear sweet 
face, 
Dead in the rose leaves now ashen 
gray. 

96 



THE DAISY AND VIOLET. 

A DAISY white and a violet blue 
Grew side by side in a meadow new ; 
They were beautiful and fairy small, 
And won the admiration and love of all. 
The daisy springs up with its soft pale 

face, 
Standing erect in its lovely gi'ace. 
And side by side a rivalry grew 
'Tween the daisy white and the violet 

blue. 

Each so lovely on their small estate, 
Blooming early till the summer late, 
And breathing fragrance on the even- 
ing air. 
While they glowed with beauty in the 

sunset glare. 
*' See," the daisy said, "I am pure as 

snow. 
And all with praises and blessings 'pon 
me bestow, 

97 



98 THE DAISY AND VIOLET. 

While you," and the sweet daisy's 

laugh, 
" Only wither and die with autumn's 

chaff." 

The violet sighed low with drooping 
head, 

And sadly tho't of what the daisy had 
said. 

And it grew bold as the sighing winds 
blew, 

And murmured softly, *' I am of heav- 
en's own hue, 

I am treasured fondly and gently 
prest. 

By the hands of a maiden while sweet 
at rest, 

And she speaks of my beauty and lan- 
guage dear, 

While in books I repose by the fireside's 
cheer." 

The night came on and the flowers 

slept. 
While the moon shone brightly thro' 

cloudy cleft, 



THE DAISY AND VIOLET, 99 

The daisy and violet were hid from 

sight, 
By the swaying grass that reflected the 

light, 
Divided were they in a single night, 
Hidden forever from one another's sight. 
A terrible obstacle had risen between, 
A loathsome toadstool of a golden 

green. 
Their many sighs were all in vain, 
While they grew sick and giddy with 

pain. 
The autumn waned and the autumn 

sped 
And the daisy and violet slept with the 

dead. 



WHAT? 

A PAUSE in life, a stop, 

What then? 
A weary flight of time, our lot, 

What then ? 
A farewell to the love that is dead, 

What then ? 
A dirge to the words that are said. 

What then ? 

What ! and the echoes far down 

The hill-sides reply 
Death ! and all the hills resound 

In an answering sigh — 
"What then !" a brook repeating low, 

" What Cometh then ? " 
I caught my breath. A whisper like 
the blow 

Of an idle wind said, *' Heaven ! " 



LINES IN AN ALBUM 

What shall I write 

In this album to-night ? 

I would wish thee many things, 

All that deep happiness brings, 

Joy, " Friendship," 'tis a lovely theme, 

A pure, golden, sunlit dream, 

Yes ? then Friendship it shall be. 

Friendship holy, friendship true, 
Is what I wish and hope for you, 
A sincere friend with unselfish heart. 
Safe and sure when far apart. 
Could I wish thee more or better 
Than love's, friendship's fetter ? 
No, I think not; a perfect life 
Is blessed friendship free from strife 



ONLY A FLOWER. 

Only a flower, yet, O, how sweet ! 
Alone, alive, abashed mid the wheat 

Where it grew, 
With a dainty, shy, white face, 
With its perfumed lips, and stately 
grace, 

And eye of blue. 

Only a flower that grew in the wheat. 
Where the dew and rain and wind does 
meet 
And talk of it ; 
When the night shadows cover all, 
The wheat does bend, and kiss, and 
call 

To its face moonlit. 



CLOVER BLOSSOMS. 

The white and scented clover, 
The pink and tufted clover, 

All around and over ; 
And you, love, leave it on your breast 
With its perfume, with its zest. 

The pink and white sweet clover. 

The bees are flitting o'er 

In their hunt for honeyed store, 

In and out, in and out ; 
My love, too, sips the sweets. 
And the perfume comes and greets 

Her 'mid the clover scattered 'bout. 
103 



TO-MORROW. 

To-morrow will bring you back to me 
Sweet, sweet to-morrow ! 

The night in sleep, how long 'twill be ! 
And then to-morrow. 

To-morrow ! like to the dead of yester- 
day 

Was the morrow. 
'Twas heaven once, and sweet to pray 
Of bright to-morrow. 

To-morrow? how quick the curtains 
lift of night, 

And bring to-morrow ; 
If death would come, what rare delight, 
And drown to-morrow ! 



FINIS. 

104 



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